


Substitute

by cats_mother (phoebesmum)



Category: Sports Night
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/cats_mother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dana wants Casey, but if he's not available, she'll take whatever comes along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitute

**Author's Note:**

> Written January 2007, for oxoniensis's LiveJournal Porn Battle. Prompt: Dana/Dan, 'pale'.

Casey's ignoring you; he's all over Lisa like a bad rash. Well, two can play at that game.

The kid from Casey's office is nineteen years old and doesn't look like much: pasty-faced, like he never sees the sun, all bones and angles and lank, straight hair, but he'll do.

When you put your hand on his thigh he jolts, looks up at you, brown eyes suddenly grown huge; when it slides a little higher he twists, gasps, trying to back into the corner, but you follow. He can protest all he likes; his body tells a different story. His eyes aren't the only thing that's huge.

You tell him you need to get out of here. He nods, as if he doesn't trust himself to speak. That's okay; you're not interested in talking anyway. You grab his hand and pull him after you, flag down a cab and head for your apartment. Truthfully, you're not sure you can wait that long; you push yourself up, twist around, straddling him and settling into his lap. His pale face is comically serious, eyes fixed on yours as if hoping to search out your deepest secrets, but his hands slide reflexively up your arms to rest on your shoulders. Not good enough. You take his left hand in yours, clamp it over your breast.

"Like that?" you whisper. He nods, unspeaking, as his palm shapes itself automatically to curve the underside, his thumb and forefinger closing on your nipple.

Still not good enough. There's too much fabric in the way. You undo your top button and he gets the message, fumbles the next open with his free hand, then the next, and the next, until your flesh is exposed to the clammy night air and the cold touch of his fingertips.

He angles his head and his mouth closes on you, tongue licking, flicking, while his fingers paint smaller and smaller circles on your body. Your back arches and your head falls back; you gasp, and you feel the pressure begin to build in your cunt –

The cab jars to a halt and the moment's lost. But only for as long as it takes you to pay off the driver – you should be embarrassed, but who cares? You'll never see that man again – grab the kid and drag him after you, up the stairs to the front door, two more flights of stairs up to your apartment, through the door, and the hell with the bedroom, that's too far, the sofa will do. You fling yourself onto it, pull him down on top of you, squirming up to find his mouth – and, unprepossessing as he is, it really is, you notice, a surprisingly pretty mouth; soft, too and responsive as it opens under yours and you meet in a clash of tongues and teeth, necks angling and twisting to get closer, deeper, _more_.

_More_. You squirm around as best you can under his weight and he lifts up a little for you. You reach down and hitch up your skirt, grab his hand again and pull it down, rest it against your belly this time and let him figure out the rest.

He's a fast learner. His fingers trace the hollow of your navel, flutter downwards, under the waistband of your panties, threading through your pubic hair. His index finger curves around and slides into you, circles, flicks, then out; back, this time with the middle finger too, and a scissoring motion that hits –

_Exactly_. The. Right. Spot.

You slide a hand around to the small of his back, press him into you, twist and grind yourself down, impaling yourself, driving him into you; look up at him, see his eyes shut, his head thrown back. His throat is long and curved and pale, and you dip forward, slide your tongue along its length, over his Adam's apple, into the hollow of his throat. He gasps, then, and says, "Da-"

You clap a hand over his mouth. No names. Tonight, no names, no consequences. No emotions, no remorse, just quick, hard sex with a stranger. A perfect stranger. You lean forward, and whisper into his ear: "Fuck me."

His eyes open and he looks at you, grave-faced; nods, and half-smiles. He pulls himself away from you, slides to his knees before the couch, parts your thighs, and licks his way inside you, hands cradling your hips firmly and yet, somehow, tenderly, carefully, as though you were a thing to treasure.

You don't want to be treasured. But what he's doing feels so good, you don't have words to protest. The words you do have aren't in any language either of you speaks, and yet they need no translation.

***


End file.
